


Sunrise in Her Hair

by novaband



Category: 1776 (1972), 18th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF
Genre: Courtship, Established Relationship, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 19:25:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9086716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novaband/pseuds/novaband
Summary: Thomas was known for noticing the details in life. Perhaps, the most fascinating of them, were about her.





	

* * *

_"Are you struggling to recall a Plato quotation, Mr. Jefferson?"_

_"You offend me, Mrs. Skelton. I know all of his work by heart. Why, I could recite the entirety now, if you wish."_

    On that day, he took note of her laughter. The way in which her ivory nose crinkled just so at the bridge, hazel eyes glittering with a sense of mischief and utmost joy, head tilting back only slightly as her delicate lips allowed a noise he could only describe as _angelic_ escape their threshold. The sweet sound of a violin concerto could hardly match what erupted from the beautiful widow that Monday morning, and he made a mental note to ensure she laughed every day that she possibly could until the very end of her days.

  _"Do you know my favorite color, Martha?"_

_"Is it not the very shade of your red breeches, Thomas?"_

_"No, no . . . I do believe it is hazel."_

    Her eyes consumed him next.

    In contrast to the almond shape of his, which had decided upon the moment of his birth to never select simply one shade of brown or grey to stick with, hers were as wide as a young doe's, a vast sea of greens and blues and greys with tinges of browns, even flecks of gold if he caught her gaze under the Virginian sun at the right time of day. Both the sky and the Atlantic paled drastically in comparison; no painter could ever capture the shade. Had anyone else's eyes held the same ocean? He doubted the theory.

    _"What are you staring at, Tom?"_

_"Did you ever realize how your hair shines in the light, Patty?"_

_"I could almost say that you have lost your mind."_

_"If I have lost mine, Mrs. Jefferson, you have certainly lost yours."_

    They were sitting beside each other on their bed that morning, neither husband nor wife willing to face the world, the wife dressed in yellow silk, the husband in his signature red breeches and a white vest, cravat being adjusted every so often. Pale, freckled hands, fingertips calloused from daily violin practice, combed gently through auburn curls. He took more notice of her hair in that moment, while his own fingers smoothed it. If he held it to the light in just the right way, he could nearly see the light orange tone of his own hair, the shade of Patsy's hair. Their eldest certainly had more than Martha's chin, he realized, and he allowed himself to keep that locked in his mind for later.

_"You will be the only woman to bear my name, Patty. I vow to never marry again."_

    Laughter, eyes, hair -- all rushing back to him even in France. Even after every memory had been cast into the fire by his own hands, his own nine year old brought them rushing back like a riptide he could never escape. He felt as though he was drowning, rope tied around his neck. Polly, their little Polly -- she would never realize that she had brought with her a ghost across the Atlantic. He felt almost faint as she let out a soft laugh, the sound reaching his ears in an almost identical tone. Her eyes reflected the same vast ocean, only more brown clouded it. Her hair was an unmistakable replica. Every memory he had burned manifested into a migraine, running back through his mind. Her favorite flower had been hydrangeas. Her favorite wine was one he had seen once again in France and had the pleasure of allowing it to pass through his lips again. The pain only grew until he was certain the grips of his depressed state that had followed her passing would return to him, and it was then he decided that, despite the ring that remained on his finger, despite the key bearing her hair, he would forget. He had to forget.

    Yet on July 4, 1826, the ghost that had haunted the halls of Monticello and the crevices of his mind was present, her weight unnoticed by anyone save for him as he drew his final breath.

**Author's Note:**

> So . . . wow. I'm slowly gaining more and more confidence in my writing, and I'm fairly happy with this one. I've always torn Jefferson biographies apart for information about Martha, and anything about the pair's relationship. If he ever did anything right in his life, one thing was definitely the choice to marry Martha Wayles.


End file.
